Revfew's Captain Britain: Salvation
by Revfew
Summary: As Brian Braddock goes on the run as Captain Britain, a trio of priests begin their killing spree of sinners...


**Merlyn Corps, East Sussex, 2013.**

A small, metal van was their shipper of choice. Inside were four men, all roughly the same age. The most willing, to themselves at least, was Brian Braddock. Born in Essex, he was determined to shake the stereotypes of his townsfolk and be the modern juggernaut for Britain as Captain America had been for the US.

Braddock was physically capable of fighting, and was already built up considerably. But this chance, this trial, would elevate him higher. He'd shaved his brown hair too, just in case they were strictly militaristic when it came to haircuts. He looked around at the others, all looking like rigid Greek statues. The van hopped momentarily on the road.

"Ay up, we're a bit bouncy!" chortled one of the other men, but no one responded to his Yorkshire-rooted accent.

"Must be all these damned potholes." Brian replied unenthusiastically. The man smiled and held out his hand.

"Gulliver Jones. 'Oo are you?"

"Braddock. Brian Braddock."

"Ay up lads! By 'eck, we've got ourselves a James Bond!"

One of the men, brown haired and with a scratchy beard, turned to them.

"Would both of you shut up?"

"By gum, 'oo do you think you are then?!"

"Joe Chapman."

"Well, you can go stu-"

They stopped moving, and so Jones shut up. The door opened and a woman gestured them out. She had short black hair and stern features.

"You four. Come with me."

They were figuratively dragged towards a grey imposing building, inside of which was a small, windowless tram.

"Inside."

The tram hurtled along as if attached to a rubber band. It stopped suddenly, and the door opened back. They got out and found themselves at the bottom of a hill, surrounded by treacherous cliffs that pooled the ocean at their feet. Towards the North was a brown-bricked block of a building, obviously what they had come for. Outside of it was a motorbike, propped up carelessly.

Inside was a row of shower-like cubicles, enclosed with a black, plastic-like roof. Scientists milled around, taking notes. The woman addressed the candidates.

"I am Roma. These cubicles will shower you in the serum, and in turn the serum will enter into your sweat ducts, causing the changes you've come to expect."

They were thrown inside of the containers. Roma gave a sort of "executive" nod to one of the scientists, and a green liquid began to shower down upon them. It seared painfully through their skin, into their veins and through their hearts. It felt as though spikes had burst through their interiors, and punctured their organs. But just as quickly as the pain had come had it gone, and the doors opened. Men carried them out, taking care.

"Gentlemen, you've just become our salvation." Roma said, before gesturing to a table covered in ceramics, along with a metal teapot.

**lllllllllllllllllllllllllll **

"Bless me father, for I have sinned."

Being inside the small, wooden confession box was increasingly uncomfortable for O'Malley. He was a small man, but built like a thug. He'd grown up in Harlem, the child of a whore. His father had been absent since day one.

"It's ok, my child. Tell me, what did you do?" came the smooth, slightly Spanish voice of father Hector Redondo, the local priest.

"I stole, father. My conscience hasn't let me forget it, either. I figured the big guy up there could help me."

"And what did you steal, my son?"

"Bread, father. A few loaves."

"Hmm."

"Well, father?"

"In olden days, men would have their hands cut off. But I think we have a much kinder penance for you."

"Thanks. So, uh, what is it?"

There was a click, and O'Malley expected the little window to slide open. It did, quickly, and he lived long enough to see the barrel of a revolver slip through. A bullet spun into his forehead and out through the back, and his body slipped forward. Redondo exited the box, tossed away the gun and opened a large wooden door. Two other men entered, both wearing priest's attire. One was at least fifty two, with brown hair and glasses that were slightly too big. The other was young, roughly 28, and was ginger.

"Another worthless sinner, falling into damnation." the man with the glasses sighed, tutting in a disapproving manner. His name was Gabriel Rosetti, and was a priest two blocks away. The other was Kurt Gerhardt, who had returned from missionary work twelve days ago.

"Indeed. If we are to do His work, we must be ready for all of them." Redondo sighed.

"We must begin now. The salvation shall come, and us its creators!" Gerhardt yelled, as the three holy men walked into the back room.


End file.
